He was once again trapped in a cycle of drinking himself into numbness, intoxicated from morning until night. Day after day, the bottle never seemed to leave his side, as though alcohol had become his only constant companion.But it was useless. No amount of alcohol could wash it away. The pain remained painfully fresh in his chest, raw and relentless, as if the wound had never even begun to heal. The ache clawed at his heart with brutal persistence, tightening its grip until breathing itself felt like a struggle.He felt as though he was standing on the edge—teetering, unsteady, barely holding himself together. One more push, one more cruel memory, one more drink, and he was certain he would collapse. It felt like his breaking point was no longer somewhere in the distance, but right there beneath his feet, waiting for him to lose his balance.He was fortunate—just barely—that his conscience never pushed him toward suicidal thoughts. No voice urged him to give up, no darkness whispere
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